


Cranial Capacity

by redwinehouse (orphan_account)



Series: Cranial Capacity INDEFINITE HIATUS, BUT A FULL STORY LINE WAS COMPLETED [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comedy, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 08:52:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11551764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/redwinehouse
Summary: Sherlock Holmes had never seeked the company of others. Like a tiger stalking its prey, he had worked alone to catch London's worst criminals until the universe thrust upon him a partner and a friend. John Watson had been his sole confidant and  an outlier to Sherlock's sociopathic behavior; then he discovered the forensics center at King's College and the woman who ran the program.The world's only consulting detective was obsessed with your work and was ready to go through any means to obtain what you had in your possession, even if it meant solving a case that he would consider dull.Society considered both of you odd due to your jobs, but that's what brought you closer together in your unconventional relationship.





	1. The Body Farm

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my computer for several years and published on another site that is probably going to be shut down. It was originally a oneshot, but It was very well-received and I enjoyed writing it very much. I wanted to see more of these two, so I plan on making more vignettes of their life. Comments and feedback would be great. It will show me whether I should continue posting. I already have the second chapter ready to go.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Kudos to those who get the Chandler Bing quote

  


[](http://www.dazzlejunction.com/generators/image-generator.php)

  


It was the most intimate thing one could do with another human being. With a small smile on your face, you cradled her head to your chest, you fingers sliding over her forehead, her scalp, and at last, tracing her jawline. Your hands moved delicately, as if you were afraid she would break. She only stared up at you, not blinking and her gaze not breaking. It took only a few moments until your eyelids fluttered to a close.

A sense of calm washing over you, you allowed yourself to relax. Nothing could break this pure bliss. You sighed and reveled in the silence. It was here that you could think and escape the haunted concept known as "society."

"I'll give you five-hundred pounds for it."

Your eyes shot open and a scowl marred your face. Apparently, bliss was an easy thing to shatter. "What did I say about coming to the processing unit while I'm working?" You didn't need to turn around to know that the world's only consulting detective was standing right behind you.

"Not to," Sherlock retorted flatly, parroting your exact words. "I ignore most of the things you say."

"I've noticed." Despite your irritation, you gently placed the skull you had been cleaning back onto her folded towel. Purposely taking your time, you arranged the rest of the bones on their specified trays. Once everything was put in its place, you spun around, arms crossed. "I've been working on this donation for days. You will not interrupt me by trying to haggle for a woman's skull."

Mr. Holmes had made it a habit to pester you in the facility when he learned that bones, full skeletons, and mummified donations, were processed. They weren't normal cadavers. No, those had become so boring. Besides, he didn't have to worry about walking on eggshells like he had to with Molly Hooper. Here, he could torture you all he wanted and you always snapped back.

Pissing you off was just so much fun.

Sherlock shot you a clear look of annoyance. "You make it sound as if it's unethical. The woman's been dead for several years." He pointed to the remains you had yet to tend to. "The bones are covered in dirt, leaving them permanently stained." Next, he turned to the row of ribs that lay next to your deep tub sink. "Usually, ribs are difficult to clean, as they're covered in tissue. However, these are nearly dry." Sherlock bent down, pulling out his small magnifying glass to inspect the remains even further. "The crevices at the top and bottom of the femur are also prone to hold a rather high amount of residue. There are little to no samples left."

Sherlock stepped back, putting the magnifying glass back into his jacket pocket. "Obviously, this specimen has been in the ground for quite some time. I highly doubt anyone would notice its absence."

"I certainly will." You pushed your lab safety glasses back. They now rested on the top of your head. "You know that this woman had a family! And why are you so interested?"

"John touched my skull."

"Not his actual skull. Sherlock has a skull," John paused, readying himself for the odd clarification, "on his mantle."

You recognized the blogger, whose name had been splashed across every newspaper for the last year or so.

John waved sheepishly from the other side of the lab. You appreciated that he stood on the uncontaminated side of the building, as indicated by the yellow and black striped tape. It let those who worked in the facility know that they were to place fabric boot coverings over their shoes, which you noticed Sherlock lacked.

"Nice to meet you," he called. "I'm very sorry for this. He told me we were getting lunch," as soon as the words fell from John's lips, his eyes widened. "We're not, a -um," he coughed. "'together'."

You shook your head. "Of course not. People can go out to eat platonically. It's not uncommon." John gave you a relieved smile.

"However, this is not."

You nearly fell out of your chair when you saw Sherlock's ungloved hands turning the skull so he could further scrutinize it. He must have snatched it during the ten seconds you had been distracted.

"Mr. Holmes, you're not authorized to handle these remains." It only took you a second to get to your feet. You reached out to get the skull, but Sherlock had anticipated your next move and held it above his head.

With only one hand.

"Don't move, or I'll drop her," Sherlock said, looking quite smug.

You bit your tongue. "Interesting. Very interesting," you murmured, slowly circling Sherlock. "Why would you risk smashing the very thing you want to bits if you're trying to convince someone else to give it to you?" You stopped in front of him. "Either way, you lose."

"You have discoloration and swelling under your eyes, a sign that you haven't been sleeping lately. Normally, you would have never turned your back on me, knowing that I would gain full access to any specimen of my choosing. You're stressed and your reactions are slow," Sherlock continued on, his hand still high in the air while his blue eyes darted around your body. "Your hair is in a good need of a wash. I'm getting the sense that personal hygiene has been put on the back burner-"

"Now you're just being cruel."

"Finally, your attempt at wit is severely lacking. You're clearly upset about something and it is causing you to neglect your work." Sherlock slowly brought the skull back down. "It was obvious that you wouldn't stop me today." He handed the skull back to you.

Grateful for Sherlock's moment of decency, you placed the skull back on her tray and carried it to the "work in progress" shelf.

"It's this case," you finally admitted as you gazed at the floor.

Without turning away from you, Sherlock said, "John, I need formaldehyde."

"And why would you need that, Sherlock?" John sighed. He knew this was a rhetorical command, but he still had to ask.

"Because the severed foot I put under your bed is starting to rot and all of my work would be for nothing. Now run along."

Watson's mouth opened and he closed his eyes, trying to accept the information while holding back an array of colorful words. "You put a foot under my bed?"

"Yes."

"An actual foot?"

"Yes. Now go."

"Are you even going to tell me -"

"John, the longer you stand there, the longer the foot's going to be under your bed."

John finally shook his head and left the room. "A foot! There's a foot under my bed."

As soon as the sound of John's footstep disappeared, you both dropped the act. Sherlock put his hands behind his back, as he didn't want to wrap his arms around your dirty scrubs, and buried his face into your hair, though not before he flung your lab glasses across the room. He sighed in what others would mistake for agitation, but you knew that it was out of concern. His breath tickled the top of your head.

You had been seeing each other for over seven months. Sherlock would insist that it had been seven months, three days, and 6 hours, though he'd deny the fact that he obsessively kept track. It had started when he began wandering into the facility, which was only a few blocks from Bart's Morgue. You would spend hours together, both of you trying to one up each other in clever insults. Sherlock would insist on inspecting and experimenting on the bones you worked on while you continuously shot him down.

"But their bodies have been donated to science."

"I don't see how jamming various objects into the gum line of a mandible is scientific."

"The serial killer's known to violently detach the victim's jaw."

"But with a high heel shoe?"

"Transvestite."

Whether it was due to the exhausting amount of arguing or the great respect that had grown between the two of you, you had mutually settled on a game. Rather than Sherlock stealing the remains from under your nose, you challenged him to identify and describe everything he could about the person based on said remains.

Rightly so, Sherlock always passed with flying colors. You would even add a false backstory now and again, but he always saw right through it. It was on the day that he brought - rather, stole - a body of his own for you to inspect that your dynamic began to change. Though it took you longer than Sherlock, you were able to identify the gender, male, his poor dental records, presence of calculus, and a rough estimate of his age, length of his femur.

The day after you had won, Sherlock had brought with him a brown paper bag. Surprised and slightly shocked, you took it and looked inside.

In it was a packed lunch. Was that the smell of freshly baked bread? "Thank you," you said. Eyes bright, you looked at Sherlock, whose attention seemed to be on everything but you.

"Mrs. Hudson insisted that I bring it to you. She seems to think it's the least she could do for you 'putting up with me'." He wrapped his scarf around his neck. "I have to go. There seems to be a serial killer on the loose." Sherlock's face had brightened. "You would not believe the shade of pink one of the victims was wearing, absolutely heinous."

After Sherlock left with way too much pep in his step considering there was a murder, you changed out of your scrubs and went through the various steps of decontamination. You finally sat down to eat. To your pleasure, you found a chicken salad sandwich, crisps, and chunks of watermelon.

It was only after you slid into bed that night that you remembered only Sherlock knew your favorite foods.

Girlfriends had never been his area, but he considered you above that. He also didn't feel that a label was needed for your relationship. It was so pedestrian. He had once dubbed it as "a mutual fondness for one another."

Of course, both of you had kept your mouths shut, not wanting to hear any of it from anyone. However, Sherlock had been leaving small clues around 221b for John to find. A napkin that you had used the night before that still smelled like you, a single strand of your hair that lingered on his jacket; obvious things that John should have picked up on. Sherlock deduced that his friend was too wrapped up in his own mess of a love life to figure it out.

So it was quite natural for Sherlock to be concerned when he saw you in distress.

"What is it?" he asked.

You closed your eyes for a moment and reached over to the radio that was always on while you worked. Not in the mood for music, you flicked the switch and the room became silent.

"If you don't tell me, I'm going to find out on my own and I doubt it will solve anything," Sherlock finally said.

He was right, of course. You had to tell someone about it or you would find yourself suffocating for the rest of your life. Pulling away, you took off your second layer of gloves that had reached a yellow-brownish color, and disappeared into the woman's locker room. It took you several minutes, but you emerged in your regular clothes, completely sanitized.

Now, you could safely take Sherlock's hand and lead him to the back door, where fresh donations were kept. You paused. Your hand grasped the doorknob anxiously while your eyes flicked to Sherlock.

Sherlock was not usually a very sentimental man, but when he squeezed your hand to comfort you, he defied even his best critics.

Feeling more certain of yourself, you turned the knob and opened the door.

It's incredibly cliché to say that nothing smells worse than a dead body, but as cliché as it was, the statement proved sound. Both you and Sherlock had become accustomed to the stench over the years, but it still wasn't pleasant. At least in this case, the subject was merely mummified. If it had been fresh, it would almost be unbearable. It took a certain kind of person to put up with it.

The two of you were that kind of person.

"He was only twenty-three years old," you said. You were staying professional, but Sherlock could see through your facade and hear the slight shake in your voice. It would have been unnoticeable to a normal human being, but he was far from normal.

Sherlock looked at the shriveled body before him. The man was tiny, not the size a man of his age should be. His limbs were curled up in the fetal position, as if he was cowering away from the world. Immediately, Sherlock deduced that this was not a normal death.

Behind in growth based on subject's age.

Mummified body - a sign that he had been unattended for months.

Lack of broken bones, ruling out blunt force trauma. Evidence of stab wounds also lacking.

Bed sores and lacerations scattered across the translucent skin. He didn't move, couldn't move.

Hardware clearly visible in the spine. The subject had suffered from severe scoliosis, rendering him motionless, thus describing the sores.

Signs of austere neglect.

"How long was it until they found his body?" Sherlock asked. You looked over the subject. Sherlock saw that you cared for those who you worked on. It was so rare to find someone who could love the deceased bodies they worked with as much as you did. Granted, he found them fascinating, but only because they were mere pieces of a case puzzle. But they were still people to you.

This quality made you beautiful.

And quite a nutcase.

Nutcases were his area.

"Five months," you answered.

Sherlock had to shake himself mentally to re-focus his attention. It only took him a fraction of a second. "He was neglected by one of his family members. I'm assuming that not only was he unable to move because of the scoliosis, but was unable to function due to a mental disorder."

"The family became exhausted."

"They pinned all of the responsibility onto one person."

"The grandmother," you answered, or continued Sherlock's explanation. "The police were convinced that it was only an accident."

"They gave up on him, not wanting to deal with such a burden." Sherlock leaned forward, taking in every detail, every laceration, and every sign of abuse. "They left him to shrivel away, no food or water..."

It was the bang of the door that alerted him that you had left the room.

Sherlock found you in the car park, staring out into the woods as you watched the autumn leaves fall to the ground. You hugged yourself, trying to keep yourself warm. In your outburst, you must had forgotten to grab your coat. The site of your breath spiraling into the sky showed how cold London had become.

"I could list the dangers of going outside in freezing weather without a jacket, but I feel like that'd be falling on deaf ears." You felt the weight of Sherlock's coat fall onto your shoulders, and you accepted it gratefully, quickly snuggling into the fabric.

"Thank you."

"Something's still bothering you," Sherlock stated, looking at you with the corner of his eye. For someone as lean as he was, he seemed to be unaffected by the cold.

You waved him away graciously when he tried to wrap his scarf around your neck. "I'm fine. I won't be out here for long. I just needed," you searched for some excuse, "fresh air."

Sherlock rolled his neck. "The common cold, hypothermia, frostbite, though in this kind of weather it would be frostnip. Either way, I wouldn't want to be standing next to a dead body. Anderson would love to frame me for murder. Then again, someone as thick as Anderson would have no way to find probable cause even if I was standing next to a corpse -"

While Sherlock prattled on, you had taken the liberty to tie his scarf back around his neck. You knew that Sherlock berating you with his knowledge of medical illnesses brought on by frigid weather was his way of showing affection. He didn't want you to get sick. In fact, he didn't want you to be hurt in any way. Otherwise, he wouldn't have followed you.

You were Sherlock's undoing.

Your hands still firmly grasping his scarf, you pulled him down and pressed your lips to his, immediately shutting him up.

His icy blue eyes widened for only a moment, shocked at your sudden boldness. However, when he felt your fingers immerse themselves in his dark locks, his eyelids closed and his hand wandered down to your waist, firmly bringing your body against his.

Maybe it was because you were wearing a coat twice your size, but you quickly found your whole body flush. Putting pressure on the back of his head, you deepened the kiss and softly ran your tongue across Sherlock's lower lip. He didn't need further encouragement and quickly opened his mouth, allowing you to tentatively slip yourself inside.

With one hand still on your waist, his other hand slid up your back, finally coming to rest across your shoulder blades. Breaking away from you, Sherlock grazed your ear, his breath giving you goosebumps as he began to whisper.

"Six-hundred pounds."

The object you had just used as a means of affection quickly became a noose as you jerked Sherlock's scarf upward. "You're still thinking about that skull? I'm having a moment and you decide to act like a div! Tell me, brilliant boy, in what universe does that make any sense?"

Maybe it was because you had called him a boy that Sherlock was giving you that evil stare, but it never worked on you. Even when his air flow was cut off, a blow to his ego was still the worst thing you could do to him.

"Emotionally vulnerable," he coughed out, "compromised, and distracted. Your hormones clearly had taken over all rational thought." Sherlock gasped when you let him go. He adjusted his scarf, never letting his glare waver.

Once he had become settled, you pressed the back of your hand to his cheek.

"What are you doing?" he questioned.

"It's funny," you began, "for such a frigid day, you're burning up." With that, you turned and headed back to the facility.

If you had been looking, you would have seen Sherlock's lips quirk and his devilish expression. He then quickly realized that his body heat was returning to normal and that you still had his coat.

Sherlock didn't mind, of course. It gave him a reason to chase after you.

 

~*~

 

John Watson took a sip of tea as he skimmed through the morning's paper. His flat mate had gone out earlier, giving him no indication as to where he was going or what he was doing. Normally, John would have asked questions, but he hadn't been able to fall asleep the past several nights due to Sherlock's raucous experiments with a wheelchair and a hearing aid. So, he just let it go.

"John, I need you to yell at me," Sherlock had said, looking absolutely ridiculous.

"I don't think you'll need a hearing aid to hear what I'm about to say to you. Do you know it's three in the morning?"

"Yes! Now keep that thought in mind while I run into the other room."

John shook his head at the memory. He was perfectly content with this morning spread. No noise, no yelling, no gallivanting Sherlock. He was about to take a bite of toast when his eyes skimmed over an article, "Hunnicutt Case Closed by Holmes."

He was in shock. Sherlock had said nothing about any case, and even if he did, he wouldn't have taken on one that was so mundane. John quickly shook himself. Murder was never something to consider dull or boring. He had clearly been living in 221 Baker Street for too long. But this seemed much too cut and dry for Sherlock.

Jeremy Hunnicutt had been a severely disabled young man who had died of his condition. His grandmother was his designated caretaker. As it had turned out, the grandmother was hard of hearing and was developing Alzheimer's. Sadly, she forgot about the boy and couldn't hear his screams because of a faulty hearing aid. Jeremy slowly died of starvation, and it wasn't until several months later that anyone found his body.

The body. Yes, that was the only thing that made the situation stand out. Jeremy's body was found perfectly mummified. It excited the physical anthropologists and the forensic teams. Otherwise, it flew under the radar. However, John knew that there had to have been foul play if Sherlock's name was associated with it.

"The brand of the hearing aid she had was top of the line," Sherlock said cheerily as he entered the flat. "It would have taken a semi-truck to break it."

John noticed that Sherlock was carrying a package, though he couldn't make out the return address. At first, he was surprised that his friend had gotten up to fetch the post himself. Immediately, John became suspicious of its contents.

"Anyone with this hearing aid could discern sounds, let alone someone shouting from another room," Sherlock continued.

So that explained the late night escapades.

Sherlock sat in his chair, bouncing back up a fraction due to his exuberance. "She could hear Jeremy quite well. She also didn't have Alzheimer's. In fact, the whole family was tired of taking care of him and played the 'old lady' card. I followed her on her way back from the grocery and feigned a mugging. She conveniently remembered that she only had a few quid on her."

"So you mugged an old lady?"'

Sherlock didn't even bother to look up as he pulled a switchblade out of his morning robe. "I mugged a murderer." He began slicing through the tape of the box. "You're wondering why I took the case," he said, not even looking at John.

"I didn't even know it was a case," John answered, putting the newspaper on the table. He clearly didn't need to read the rest of the article when Sherlock was chomping at the bit to brag.

"Everyone involved was a moron. They thought they didn't have a case because they didn't take the time to look closer." After a small struggle, Sherlock was able to rip open the box. "All I had to do was step in, point out the obvious, and the whole family is now on their way to court."

"But the question is why you felt the need to step in. It hardly seemed intellectually stimulating."

Sherlock had already begun to unwrap the bubble wrap that encased the mysterious object. "It wasn't. It was more of a favor."

At this, Watson's raised a brow. "Sherlock Holmes accepts favors? I wish I knew that earlier."

"Don't be ridiculous. This was a very special circumstance. There was something I needed and solving this case was merely a means to an end." Finally, the bubble wrap fell to the floor and the object that was the center of Sherlock's attention was revealed.

Sherlock's face could have rivaled Gollum's expression when the creature had discovered the ring. Slowly, Sherlock brought the skull to his eye level. His thumb stroked the stained bone, his fingers gently tracing the sutures on the cranium.

"Wait," John put his hand out, trying to pause the moment as he tried to make sense of the situation. "You were actually able to convince her to give you that skull?"

Attention still on the skull, Sherlock said, "It took a bit of work, but when you give someone what they want, you're sure to be repaid."

John recalled you, trying to remember any sign that signaled you were a loon. You had seemed so normal, perfectly sound, even. In no way did he guess that you were anything but a professional. In fact, he was mulling over the thought of asking you out. Anyone who could hold their ground against Sherlock immediately became appealing.

"So, you solved this case so you could get this skull?"

"Maybe your deduction skills aren't as hopeless as I thought they were. "

John looked slightly proud, but Sherlock was quick to shoot him down.

"I guess not. You're still awful. I was clearly lying and you completely fell for it. Granted, I'm able to hide all the physical signs of lying, but you should have known that I wouldn't succumb to mediocre -"Sherlock stopped talking, which was a miracle in itself. He pulled a metal identification tag out of the box and read it. Something must have pleased him, because Sherlock began to smile.

"What?"

"Her name's Ophelia."

The significance wasn't lost on John. The famous skull that sat so proudly on the mantel was assumed to be named Yorick. Sherlock never referred to it directly, but the look on his face seemed to confirm the assumption.

Sherlock placed Ophelia next to Yorick and stepped back, admiring his collection. "I could absolutely kiss her. I love her!" He stomped his foot and did a victory pump. With that, Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play The Gadfly - Romance as he disappeared into his bedroom.

At that moment, John was mentally slapped in the face with the truth. He then questioned as to whether Sherlock had been talking about the skull or you.

"Sherlock!"

 

~*~

 

You were finally able to put Jeremy to rest, knowing that justice was going to be served. Sherlock helped you a great deal, even if he claimed that he had done it only for the possession of Ophelia. Either way, he had really given you the greatest gift of all.

Ophelia specifically wrote that if she were to die, she would want her skull to be obtained by the famous Sherlock Holmes. Granted, it was a little creepy, but Sherlock didn't need to know that. It was quite fun to see him jump through hoops.

The messer had become the messie.

Sinking down into your sofa, you turned the telly on and settled your dinner in your lap. Work had really worn you out, so a movie sounded like a great way to wind down. The flashing of lights made you hesitate, your finger hovering just above the button that turned on your DVD player.

A mass of people were gathered outside of the Scotland Yard. Some were reporters asking hurried questions about the Hunnicutt case, while others were raging fangirls, screeching at the top of their lungs. Through the mass of writhing bodies, a distinct mop of black hair towered over them.

Sherlock walked through the mob, holding up his collar to avoid any pictures and onlookers. You smiled, proud to know that you were one of the few who he let see through the black fabric.

Sherlock was quickly able to make it to his cab, where John was already waiting. You tilted your head, pausing the feed. There was something you had missed.

Rewinding the footage, you once again watched Sherlock's emergence. This time, watching closely, you saw it. With a smile on your face, you watched it again.

Though his collar was still covering his face, there was a moment when those beautiful blue eyes appeared over the rim. For a brief moment, they looked directly at the camera. Literally, in the blink of an eye, one of them winked.


	2. Late Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Any decrease of anxiety is a step towards love." - Deepack Chopra

[](http://www.dazzlejunction.com/generators/image-generator.php)]

  


You quietly opened the door to 221B Baker Street, careful not to wake anyone. At 1pm, you weren't surprised that the apartment was completely dark. Slipping your shoes off, you crept across the room and flopped onto the couch face first, letting out a sigh that sounded like a deflated balloon. Every single inch of you ached – all the way from your head to your toes. You had been working in the lab since 6 in the morning and all you wanted to do was sleep. Your eyes fluttered closed.

"You smell disgusting."

You shot up, snatching a pillow and covering your mouth in an effort to muffle your scream. Sherlock switched on the lamp. He was sitting in his chair, one leg gracefully crossed over the other and chin resting on his intertwined fingers. His blue eyes met yours.

"What is wrong with you?" you snap. "You almost gave me a heart attack!"

Sherlock scoffed. "Unlikely. The risk factor for heart attacks usually apply to those around the age of 55 and higher, especially among men. You also get a decent amount of exercise and eat relatively healthy, although this pickled beetroot fad is ridicu-"

"Stop." You held a hand up. "I'm just too tired right now." You began to massage your temples. "And I smell bad because I've been working on a murder victim all day. She's pretty ripe."

"I'm just saying that you're a very healthy person and it's stupid of you –" Sherlock stopped when he saw the look on your face. It wasn't anger. You were looking at him, your expression pained and begging him to shut up. Shockingly, he did.

The consulting detective recently learned self-restraint and subtle social ques. Now, the universe hadn't completely turned upside-down. Sherlock's new ability only applied when it came to you, nor was he always right or capable of using it at the appropriate time. It had first happened three months ago, when you were at the university's forensic lab.

_Sherlock strode into your office without a hello. His eyes landed on the student sitting at the opposite side of your desk. The kid's eyes had grown as wide as saucers at the sight of the famous detective. He was either star struck or terrified of the man who swooped in like a bat out of hell._

_"Get out," Sherlock ordered. The boy quickly gathered all of his things, nearly tripping over his backpack before nearly running out of your office. Sherlock took a seat in the now empty chair and gave you a thin smile. "So how has your day been?" he began to ramble. "John suggested I should check in and ask. It 'shows that I care' which I don't understand because you already know I care and why I have to take the time out of my day to go out -" he stopped. You were looking at him, not angry. You weren't frowning, but something was off._

_His mind began to work in overdrive as his eyes darted around your face, taking in every single detail. "The skin above your eyebrows," he said lowly, "is triangulated." his eyes flicked down to your mouth. "And the corners of your mouth are twitching down, but barely." His eyes met yours. "You're sad..." his expression softened. "and you're trying to hide it."_

_You let out a deep sigh. "That was Travis. He was a forensic anthropology major until his parents convinced him that there was no future in the field. He just dropped out of the program." You looked away, not wanting Sherlock to see the sole tear that was sliding down your cheek. "He was a straight A student – came to all the guest lectures and extra study sessions. Forensics was his passion, and his parents killed it."_

__

__

_Sherlock's normal, instinctual reaction would have been a harsh insult or a sarcastic remark. However, the look on your face absolutely melted his heart. Instead, he circumvented your desk. Kneeling down, he enveloped you in his arms. "I'm sorry people are so stupid," he said into your hair. He kissed your temple. He pulled you in and let you rest your head on his shoulder for a moment. "However," his voice had taken on its normal seriousness as he stood up "there is nothing to be done. I suggest you get over it as soon as possible for your sanity as well as mine because I would certainly have to deal with your moping for god knows how long."_

_He was halfway out the door but froze. You had risen from your chair and had a smile on your face. "What?" he asked cautiously, not liking where this was going._

_"Actually, there is something you can do."_

Sherlock got up from his chair and rummaged through the kitchen, taking care not to make a lot of noise. You smiled to yourself. These small common courtesies were Sherlock's demonstration of affection. You smiled as he handed you a glass of water and two ibuprofen. "Thank you," you said before downing the pills. Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement as he rifled through dozens of papers thrown all over his lap and floor.

"How's it going?" You took off your sweater and headed to the bedroom you now shared.

"Stupidly," he answered absentmindedly, paper clipping a photo to a file.

You smiled as you peeled off your clothes. "I'm going to take a quick shower and I'll be right out. I'll leave the bedroom door open if you need anything." You kissed your fingers before lightly pressing them to Yorick and Ophelia.

"Is that an invitation?" Sherlock chuckled as you disappeared. He wouldn't have time even if he wanted to. This had to get done before Monday and he already felt like he was going to throw up. Obviously Sherlock wouldn't disclose his anxieties to anyone- not to you and not to John. After mulling over all of his back files, Sherlock had finally found what he was looking for. Sweeping up all the unnecessary files, Sherlock gathered everything he needed before he shut off the light and joined you in the bedroom.

~*~

You were shaking your damp hair out as you walked out of the bathroom in Sherlock's house robe. "Well, hey there."

Sherlock was sitting Indian style on the bed, papers, photos, files, and note cards strewn all around him. He was slouched over with his face in his hands. "Why am I doing this?" he groaned in your direction.

"Because you 'like like' me," you chimed, dropping your robe. It was on a rainy day he had confessed when "like-likeness" you. You had been dating for a year and a half, and it had made your heart explode.

"Ah-!" Sherlock covered his surprise with a harsh cough. You may had been together for a decent amount of time, but he was still very shy. "So," he croaked "how was the corpse?"

You threw him your most menacing glare. "Her name is Stacey. She was bludgeoned to death with a rock by her ex-boyfriend." You threw on some pajamas before you crawled onto the bed and settled in next to Sherlock. 

"That's rather boring."

"Her body was stuck on a fence for two weeks untouched because people thought she was a Halloween decoration. We took her to study decomp'." Your voice had softened into a whisper and you looked down at your hands.

Sherlock brought his fingers to a steeple, resting them under his chin, "how morbidly interesting." You rolled your head around your shoulders and sighed. "Sorry," he murmured.

You smiled, feeling yourself grow warm. In the time that you have known him, he was just starting to learn how to apologize. "Thank you. I accept your apology." You leaned over and kissed his cheek, causing him to laugh.

"Did, I do well, mum?"

You took a hold of his chin and placed a chaste kiss to his lips. "You're doing great, poodle head."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you this, but in no way does my hair look like the fur of a poodle, nor does it have the same texture. I also despise that name and I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop calling me that." He ruffled his hair aggressively, signaling the end of the conversation. You could only laugh. He got so mad every time.

"So," you ran your fingers all over the case information, "you're going with bug guy?" With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, I am going with 'the bug guy.' Although I prefer to go by it's official name, 'The Case of the Bright Butcher'." Sherlock buried his face in his hands again. "They're going to think I'm boring. There is nothing more boring than a classroom." He swept everything off the bed dramatically. "And they're all so stupid!" He flung himself onto his back, causing the mattress to bounce.

"Those are my students you are talking about!" You smacked him with a pillow. You lay down as well. "Listen, all of them already know who you are. When you started popping up on the news, students become more interested in forensics and criminology." You noticed that the corner of Sherlock's mouth began to quirk. "The attendance grew and our department was actually becoming pretty swamped."

Sherlock's eyes flicked to yours, his blue irises sparkling. "You don't say."

You almost snorted, but you had to maintain your composure, knowing that stroking his ego was part of this process. "Yes. And then when they found out we were dating...it was absolute Bedlam." At this point you threw your hands up in the air and actually laughed. A satisfied smirk was now plastered on Sherlock's face, and you knew you were in the clear.

"So what I'm saying, is that you can go up there for 55 minutes and talk about your bug guy," Sherlock shot you a glare. "-about the Bright Butcher, inspire them, catch the attention of their parents, and probably be an asshole to a couple of kids, and to be honest," you shrugged "-they'd probably thank you for it because you're Sherlock Holmes and it's cool for them to get their arse chewed out by you."

It was quiet for a few moments as Sherlock just stared at the ceiling. You got nervous; you were really sure that you had it in the bag.

You felt a gentle hand on your shoulder before you were pulled against Sherlock's chest.

"I 'like like' you."

Unbeknownst to the both of you, a retired army doctor sat in the kitchen, having a cuppa. It was hard to sleep when neither of you were whispering.

"You love her, you dickhead," he said to himself before taking a sip of his tea and straightening his newspaper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next three chapters will be a continuation of one story line. I hope you enjoyed it! Peace and love <3


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